Hey there, Trick-or-Treaters! I have a little taste sample of my latest short story, which will be published in an anthology in November. I will provide more details later as the publication date approaches.
For now, enjoy…
SUICIDE IS FOR SUCKERS By Derek Barton
[DAY ZERO]
The street lamps swirled ominously like frenzied lightning bugs all about him. Four walls of night surrounded and obscured the top of the parking garage. Everything before Chad’s eyes blurred and skewed in the whirlwind. The concrete beneath his feet bucked and rippled. It was like a giant’s hand grabbed reality and spun the wheel.
Vomit threatened to surge up his throat. Every sound was dull and muted. Even his heavy panting was barely audible. His back prickled with goosebumps as a sudden wind blew over his sweat-soaked dress shirt. The amber bottle of bourbon slipped from his grasp and shattered at his feet. He clutched at his car door with both hands, stood as still as possible, and waited for the world to slow down and stop.
Several long, drawn-out minutes passed. He eased into his driver’s seat, let his head rest against the seat cushion, and closed his eyes. His breathing began to subside.
The coke… what was in that coke? His mind reeled in the wake of the drug effects. I… I have had coke and bourbon together before and never felt like this. I’m gonna kill Maxie! She gave me a tainted score! That stupid bitch!
He opened his eyes. The streetlights were back at their posts. They dotted the city landscape before him like sunlit dew drops on grass. His tongue stuck to the top of his mouth, his throat was a dried-out husk. A deep-seated craving came over him for that bottle of whiskey.
Chad twisted his head around as he scanned the interior of the Malibu for a stray, abandoned bottle of water. Nothing. Only scattered napkins, straw wrappers, fast-food wrappers, and paper bags cluttered the passenger side.
He gave up the search when he spotted a crumpled pack of cigarettes. After bouncing one out, he found his lighter in the loose change tray of the car counsel.
It took only a few deep drags to feel a calm descend over him. The cocaine still ran frantically through his veins along with whatever else was in it. But now sitting in the car, Chad had a semblance of peace and control.
The view of the city below as it sprawled along the mountains and rushed to the shorelines of the Gulf of Mexico was still breathtaking. He wondered how he managed to destroy the beauty of his life in the face of such amazing natural grandeur.
The coke. Every time. The coke, his brain quickly spoke up in case he had somehow not realized that.
I am not stupid. Top grades in high school. Star in Track and Field. I graduated with a business degree from ACU. I worked and managed a bank branch for four years.
He was not an idiot, but still not smart enough to avoid being an addict for two and a half years.
Today at BNO Financial Bank ended abruptly at 12:25 PM. Vice President Douglas Bramton walked in on him doing three lines in the janitor’s closet. First mistake. Escorted out of the branch building by security around 1:17 PM.
Call to fiancée, Tess Fields. Second mistake. By 3:11 PM, Chad was a single man again.
After finding Maxie and scoring a fresh stash, he drove over to the Total Wines & Whiskeys on Lehman Avenue. 4:02 PM. Third mistake.
Chad glanced at the Malibu’s dashboard clock. 2:11 AM. He shook his head in disgust. The last five hours were an opaque void. An abyss that could not be revealed or his actions.
The car sat idle and parked at a bad angle on an empty rooftop. Did I just get here? Or have I been here all night?
He sat up and scanned the hood. Doesn’t look damaged, so I doubt I hit anything.
Scoffing and shrugging his shoulders, he settled back. The heaviness settled on him, pressing him like a barbell into his cushioned seat.
Tess was not the love of his life, but she had been very good to him. She was a red-haired beauty with an actual head on her shoulders. In the beginning, they spent hours debating philosophy or conspiracy theories, then would spend the next hours having frantic, wild sex. They celebrated their first anniversary two months ago. He proposed to her a month later.
He couldn’t fight her logic and recalled her words of damnation. How do you expect me to trust you? I never saw you take drugs. Now you are telling me you just lost your job for coke? I don’t know you. After what happened to my brother… Her words had choked off in a sob. I don’t know you. Never call here again, asshole! Click.
Three missteps. No, that was three strikes. You’re out, man. Game over.
Over and out?
He stumbled out of the car. His legs were pretty shaky. The wind picked up and as he approached the ledge, he felt the light spattering of raindrops.
First, Chad looked up at the fast-moving clouds in the overcast sky. A surging storm was sweeping in from the bay. He leaned over the waist-high stone barrier and scanned the street below. He was in a seven-floor parking garage. A busy street below even at this hour. Cars lined up going both directions and cars parked on both sides. There were no bystanders. No one walking the sidewalks or loitering in front of the few shops that called Descarte Roadway home.
Three strikes. You are out, Chad. Go home…
He took a deep breath and climbed on top of the barrier.
“That is a fine watch you have there, Mr. Beauvais,” a masculine voice called out. Smooth with a slight southern twang. The words hinted at notes of refinement and intelligence.
Chad snapped a look over his shoulder. A slender man, not gaunt or athletic, but trim, leaned against his silver Malibu.
“Wh-what?”
“I said you have a fine watch. A limited-edition silver and gold ’23 Bulova Octava. Yes, it would be a shame to damage it in your fall, don’t you think?” The man flashed a perfect smile with bright teeth, an earnest expression, and a wry grin.
Besides the carefree attitude, he wore a dark brown suit, vest, and a matching derby with a black band. His face was thin with a short beak nose over a reddish-brown goatee.
“I… it’s not for sale, man. Fuck off!”
“Posh, my good man, everything is for sale. Everything and every person has a price.”
The wind gusted and Chad teetered on the edge. His arms shot out to either side, helping him regain some of his balance. But the wind fought back. Pinwheeling, he felt himself start to slip.
The man strutted forward and snagged Chad’s belt, stopping the forward momentum. “If I could offer you one solution, one answer to everything… Would you give me your last seconds to hear me out?”
“Look! I—”
“Or I could let go?” he said, stepping forward a few inches. Those few inches gave Chad an intimate, birds-eye view of the cement sidewalk. Below were the hard metal cars reflecting streetlamps. He heard and felt the rumble of speeding tractor-trailers making long-haul journeys across the state.
“NO! HEY, STOP! ARE YOU CRAZY?”
“Then let me formally introduce myself so we can have a civilized adult conversation. You may call me, Mr. Holmes.”
“Uh… I’m Chad—”
“Beauvais. Yes. Do you want to hear my offer now?”
Chad nodded, knowing there was little option. As quick as he had been ready to throw it all away, the act of climbing onto the ledge ended his drug stupor. Hanging precariously seventy feet or more in the air by his belt completely sobered him up. He never felt more alive. All five senses thrummed with a vibrancy nearly overriding his sanity. “What do you want, mister?”
“It is Mr. Holmes, I won’t say it again,” his grin had vanished. “It is not what I want, but what I can offer.”
Chad sighed with relief as the stranger helped him back into the garage, plopped down to rest with his back against the barrier, and said, “All right. I’m listening.”
“What would you say is your biggest obstacle in life? What has always got the better of you? Or who perhaps?”
“You tell me. You seemed to know.”
A black wooden cane with a curved handle resembling a snake appeared in his hand. He whipped it up and punched Chad hard in the chest. Mr. Holmes then brought it to a spare two inches from his left eye. “Time is of the essence, and I don’t take to fools. They say that every seventeen seconds a man takes his life. I do not need you; you need me. Are you going to drop your attitude, or do I throw you off the garage myself?” The steely look in Mr. Holmes’ eyes spoke the truth. He was ready to end Chad’s life.
“Sorry,” he gulped. His hand rubbed absently at the spot where the cane had struck. “Go on.”
“I will resolve that root of evil in your life. I can make whatever you name as your challenge, disappear forever. Imagine it. It’s not an offer of instant success, but true power to succeed on your own merits. You’ve always wanted to prove yourself. Make everyone eat their doubts!”
Chad couldn’t help himself, he giggled and then cackled. The words tumbled out. “Oh, man! You had me there. You got me good. Quite the sales pitch! What, are you some psychologist or maybe one of those police negotiators? That was clever, man! Distract me long enough to pull me down from the ledge. Uh, am I under arrest now?” He glanced about expecting police officers to leap from the shadows.
The cane wavered in the air as Mr. Holmes decided if he was being mocked or not. It dropped. He crouched beside him. His hand shot out and caught Chad’s neck in his empty palm.
“Five minutes ago, see what you almost did,” the ominous stranger whispered.
In his mind, a crowd gathered around a parked green sedan. A body flattened and molded into the top of the sedan. It was his body! One of his green eyes stared ahead lifeless. The other eye dangled on his cheek facing the ground. Blood ran in several, thick streams down the front windshield. One broken arm jutted in two different directions and sported the Bulova Octava with a shattered crystal facing.
“Suicide is for suckers, Mr. Beauvais. What is the root of your evil? Tell me.”
“I’m… I’m a drug addict. I can’t stop. I don’t even want to stop.”
“Easy. See, that wasn’t so hard to answer,” Mr. Holmes rose, straightened, and rolled his shoulders. The cane was gone again.
“Do you know where you are tonight? Do you know this address?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then in sixty days, you must come back to me. Stand before me and prove my gift has not been wasted.”
Chad struggled to his feet. “What do you get? What’s the price?”
A flash of his blazing white teeth split the stranger’s face as he smiled and winked. “You are a shrewd banker. Every soul is tainted. It is only natural. The world is filled with temptations and tests. So, every soul has a penance to pay in one form or another. I pay mine by saving good men, keeping the good from their foolish decisions. Suicide is for suckers, remember?”
He swiped at the creases in his suit slacks and smoothed out the wrinkles in his sleeves. “Do we have a deal?”
“Wait. You’ll wipe out my drug addiction. Just like that. And the only thing I need to do is to come back here? Or… or else what?”
“You pay my penance by your good karma and deeds in the world.” Mr. Holmes stopped. His eyes filled with blood. A growl began deep in his chest. “You fail me, then you’ll pay me in another way. For eternity!”
Chad watched as his hand with a will of its own extended and shook Mr. Holmes’ hand.
[DAY ONE – FIRST CUT]
Chad snapped awake, eyes wide and darting. He sat up and found himself in his apartment. Everything felt the same. Dirty sheets, scratchy blanket, and even his stained and wrinkled, white dress shirt. His pants crumpled up and lying on a chair next to a small window.
Three posters hung on the wall. One in a glass frame of a blazing blue Camaro, lights reflecting off the metal as it sat parked in a puddle, reflecting its dark image. The second poster was a movie poster. A copy of the Caddyshack movie. The last poster had a wine stain on one corner. It was a poor rendition of a runaway train merging into the silhouette of a three-masted sailing ship that streaked into the horizon, chasing the setting moon.
A short, black work desk sat opposite the bed. It had his car keys, wallet, cell phone, and a cigarette pack. Piles of napkins and a couple of pizza boxes were stacked on the corner. He did the majority of his work in the office.
All signs indicated home, his place on 77th Avenue.
He yawned, stretched, and pulled his legs free of the covers. Wow. I… I feel good, not even hungover!
Chad got up in his amazement and shambled down the hall into the bathroom. In the mirror, he looked like shit despite what his body indicated. His face thick with stubble, crusties rimmed his eyes, and there was dried drool and bourbon on his chin. His thoughts were slightly foggy as per the normal morning haze. But the newly unemployed had found he couldn’t remember how he got home.
Plucking open one of the sink drawers in the bathroom vanity, his fingers rummaged for his pipe and lighter. As his hand was wrapped around the glass tube, he froze. I’m good. I don’t want it.
The pipe dropped back into the drawer, and the drawer was shut without hesitation.
He smiled at his reflection. I am good. Holy shit, I really do not need a hit!
Above his collar, he noted a spot of red. Christ! Another new stain.
His fingers pulled back the collar to reveal a long scratch, razor-thin. It had bled in his sleep. The whitish tee-shirt had a half-circle of blood almost pie-plate size.
He ran water on a hand towel and blotted the cut. It helped.
Where did that come from? Chad mused.
The flash of an obscured face popped from memory. A dark brown suit, a stylish derby, a black cane. A murmur of conversation. What is the root of your evil? Tell me…
He splashed water onto his face, ignoring his thoughts.
“Ah, it doesn’t matter! It’s a brand-new day. Going to make something of it. Time to refresh the resume,” he said aloud, cheering himself on.
He glanced once more at the bleeding scratch. A cloud of concern passed briefly over his face.
I do hope you enjoyed the preview — I promise more details on the anthology will be coming soon.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
The Official Website of Author Derek Barton 